


Hanging Chad

by involuntaryorange



Category: Olympics RPF
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M, Plot Twists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7732420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Le Clos has been buzzing around Michael for the past few days like a fucking Zika mosquito, if Zika mosquitos were six feet tall and wore eye-searing yellow and green tracksuits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's EGT's fault that I wrote this. She also deserves credit for coming up with the ending.
> 
> This turned out way less cracky than I had intended. But still pretty cracky.

Le Clos has been buzzing around Michael for the past few days like a fucking Zika mosquito, if Zika mosquitos were six feet tall and wore eye-searing yellow and green tracksuits. He’s been a constant presence in Michael’s peripheral vision, shadow-boxing and dancing and always _staring_ at him like the world’s least subtle stalker.

And the thing is, Michael’s gotten past that race in 2012. He’s made peace with losing the gold to Le Clos by _five hundredths of a fucking second_. (It helps that he has 18 other gold medals, and Le Clos still only has one. Michael is swimming in gold like Scrooge McDuck.)

But it rankles that Le Clos is acting like he and Michael are somehow _arch-nemeses_. That’s like saying that Leonardo DiCaprio and Keanu Reeves are Oscar rivals. Michael is no more threatened by Le Clos than he is by any of the other guys getting ready to climb onto the starting blocks.

Still, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t _extra_ motivated to beat Le Clos. Whether Le Clos is trying to psych him out or is just desperate for his approval, Michael just wants him to stop bouncing around him like a jack-in-the-box.

He lets that annoyance propel him through the water, stroke after stroke, lap after lap, and when he finally hits the wall and surfaces at the end of the race and discovers that Le Clos _didn’t even medal_ , he can’t help but grandstand a little. A little? Okay, maybe a lot. As he gestures for the crowd to scream even louder, he hopes Le Clos is getting the message: _you are nothing to me._

He assumes Le Clos will lay off after that humiliating defeat. He isn’t expecting to get back to the locker room after his victory lap(s) and interviews to discover the asshole _waiting_ for him.

“What the fuck do you want?” Michael asks, finally letting his annoyance show now that nobody’s around.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on a good race,” Le Clos says, as though his approval means anything. He says it like he’s bestowing a gift. This from a guy who, four years ago, said Michael was his _hero_.

“Right,” Michael says flatly. “Is that all?”

“You gonna thank me for lighting a fire under your ass?” Le Clos asks, raising an eyebrow.

Michael scoffs. “Fuck off.”

“A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss, is all I’m saying,” Le Clos says.

Michael can’t help it; he hauls Le Clos against the lockers, pinning him by his shoulders. “Listen, you pathetic piece of shit. I am _done_ with whatever the fuck you’re trying to do, and if you don’t stop—”

Michael doesn’t get a chance to say what will happen if Le Clos doesn’t stop, because Le Clos grabs his face and crushes their mouths together.

This is another thing Michael wasn’t expecting.

But he hasn’t gotten where he is in life by resisting the flow, so he quickly changes gears, unclenching his hands from Chad’s shoulders and moving them down his chest. The kiss is vicious, equal parts tongue and teeth, and Michael decides this is a much better way of working out his anger.

Michael’s hands scrabble at Chad’s swimsuit, and then they scrabble some more. He attempts to hook his fingers into the waistband but it’s like trying to get a rotisserie chicken into a tailpipe. (It’s Lochte’s fault that Michael knows what that’s like.) Chad seems to be having equal difficulty, judging by the way his hands are pawing uselessly at the fabric on Michael’s hips. Eventually Chad seems to give up and just palms Michael’s crotch, which has approximately zero effect because the circulation to his dick’s been cut off since he squeezed into those damn shorts. He wouldn’t be able to get a boner right now even if that guy from Tonga showed up and sat on his face.

Michael makes one last valiant effort at prying off Chad’s suit, but he has all the traction of a slip-n-slide covered in olive oil. He unfastens his mouth from Chad’s and pushes away with a sigh.

“This is pointless, man,” he says. “I’d need a belt sander to get you out of those fucking things, and I’m not sure my dick even works anymore anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure my balls are _inside_ my body right now,” Chad says. “They may never come out again.”

Michael grabs his towel and drapes it around his neck. “So,” he says awkwardly. “What now?”

Chad shrugs. “Cupping?”

“Yeah, okay,” Michael says. “Lead the way.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A page from Chad's scrapbook.


End file.
